A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper Read Online Free PDF Page B

better than many other kinds of piece work. I’m fortunate to have it, and still we barely get by.”
    “Can you do the work outside?”
    “The down will blow away on the slightest breeze.”
    “Hmm…my hatter charged me next to nothing to add the fur lining,” Mr. Shaw said, seemingly to himself.
    “We need the income, but the work makes me miserable.”
    He bowed his head for a moment, then said sadly, “You ought to go to school instead of spending your young life working.”
    Polly smiled. “Yes, I wished for that. Without my mother…”
    She knew she didn’t have to continue. He had a sympathetic smile. He was a good man, after all. He meant her no real harm.
    “So many have so little,” he said. “You don’t deserve to grow up like that, and I’m certain that when I tell your father about this, it will not help, yet as Churchwarden, I have a duty.”
    Polly had to think fast. She had to give him what he wanted; a contrite young woman who trusted God to mete out just punishment.
    “Pray with me,” she said. Polly quickly took to her knees on the polished hardwood floor.
    Mr. Shaw hesitated only a moment before joining her. He cleared his throat before beginning. “When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed,” he said, “and…um…doeth that which is right, he shall save his soul….”
    Polly recognized his words as the opening to the Order for the Evening Prayer, something from Ezekiel, if she remembered correctly. He didn’t recite the words perfectly. She helped him with the next line, from Psalms, she thought. “I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.…”
    Polly opened one eye and glanced at him, and found him glancing back. He looked a bit sheepish, perhaps because a young sinner had shown him up. As a lay official of the Church, Mr. Shaw wasn’t required to lead prayer. He nodded in approval, clearly relieved that she’d carried on. Polly closed her eyes as she continued. Her memory of the corporate prayer gave out, and she struggled to fill the gap with an individual expression. “O Lord, please help me to be satisfied as I toil at home. Make my fingers stronger so they don’t ache so much after a long day of work. Help me find a husband to provide me with a good life. Please keep illness away. Make Papa a happier man so he should treat me better than he has done.”
    Polly thought she did well. She opened one eye to see Mr. Shaw’s reaction. Again, he glanced at her. He had a troubled look.
    “Amen,” Polly concluded uneasily.
    “Amen,” Mr. Shaw said, then cleared his throat. “Is that the manner in which you pray daily?”
    “Yes,” she said, and he frowned.
    Although Polly did believe in prayer, she didn’t pray daily. If she didn’t get what she wanted, she presumed that God could only hear and respond to so much, and that others more worthy had taken his attention. She and her family went to church rarely. They craved a day of rest from work, and Sunday was usually that day.
    “Your prayers are all for you,” Mr. Shaw said.
    Polly didn’t understand why he said that. She tilted her head questioningly.
    “You prayed for your fingers to be stronger, for a husband to make you happier, and to be protected from illness. You only asked for your father to be happier so that he should treat you better. Do you always pray only for your own betterment?”
    Polly understood, and saw the truth in what he said. She was selfish. Her father had been right, yet the problem was much worse than he’d made out. Uncomfortable with the revelation, she was dumbstruck. The intoxication of the gin had fled, and she felt suddenly out of control.
    Mr. Shaw clearly saw her distress. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t think our Lord responds to selfish prayers,” he said quietly.
    Polly, lost in thoughts of her past efforts at prayer, staggered to her feet and sat back down in the chair. She thought about when her